


The Cabin in the Mountains

by LadyMerlin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Angst, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Heartbreak, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Claudia Stilinski - Freeform, Mentions of the Hale Family - Freeform, Post-Season 5, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Sterek Secret Santa 2015, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his world comes crumbling down, and it feels like nothing will ever be okay again, Stiles runs away from Beacon Hills, hoping to spend the holiday season in a cabin that used to be owned by the Hales. He needs space and time to figure out his new step, now that he's on his own. </p><p>In the cabin in the mountains, though, Stiles learns that he's not as alone as he'd thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cabin in the Mountains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny4LoVe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny4LoVe/gifts).



> This was written for the Sterek Secret Santa 2015, for [thealphasspark](http://thealphasspark.com/post/132428655662/hello-im-your-secret-santa-for-the-sterek%20secret). I know you were having a rough time, but I hope you get through it, and I hope this helps. 
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://stereksecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/135889524895/merry-christmas-thealphasspark) on tumblr. 
> 
> Inspired partially by [this pic](http://derekandstiles.com/post/132671652517/andavs-imagine-with-me-the-hale-family-cabin-in), but this fic deviated quite a bit from the text prompt.

When he pulls into the driveway of the cabin, he hesitates.

It’s the first time he’s hesitated since he left Beacon Hills, but maybe that’s because he’d seen no alternative but to leave. At that time, there had been no room for second-guessing. He’d had no time for doubt.

And his heart had been breaking, the way it hadn’t since his mother had died.

He never thought there would be a time when he couldn’t trust Scott. Even when he hadn’t been able to _rely_ on Scott, he’d always known that Scott was on his side, in spirit. Stiles hadn’t blamed him for getting a little distracted sometimes – that’s just the way he was. Stiles had ADHD and Scott… got distracted.

He’d not blamed Scott for a lot of things, really, even when he probably should have. Maybe if he’d held Scott accountable for some of the shit that went down in their lives, things would have been different.

But as matters stood, at the end of all things, Scott had called him a murderer, and turned his back on Stiles.

Stiles was almost a _hundred_  percent sure that Scott would have woken up the next morning and realised that he’d made a horrible mistake, that he’d been duped. He’d realise that Stiles’ heartbeat had been absolutely steady, and he would have turned up at Stiles’ front door grovelling for forgiveness.

It was a problem, because once upon a time he’d have staked his life on it, and now, he didn’t dare.

The problem was that Scott had, in that moment at least, believed that Stiles was capable of cold-blooded murder. The fact that he’d believed Theo so easily just meant that he’d been thinking it all along, that Scott hadn’t trusted him for a long time.

And the  _worst_ part?

The worst part was that Stiles hadn’t realised.

For all that he was a paranoid bastard who didn’t trust _anyone_ , really, he’d banked on Scott trusting him. He’d banked on _Scott_.

He hadn’t realised that Scott just didn’t trust him in return; hadn’t even realised that there was something wrong. He didn’t know when things had gone wrong, and it made him doubt everything. Because he trusted Scott whole-heartedly. And he’d have stayed there, he thinks. He’d have waited around for Scott to come to his senses, and apologise, and he’d have forgiven Scott, even if it had hurt him to do so.

He’d have waited, if his father hadn’t jumped to pretty much the same conclusion, the moment he walked in the front door.

He doesn’t know if his dad had meant it as a joke, but when he’d asked Stiles where the body was, something in Stiles had shattered. He’d thought his dad would always be on his side, that there would have been no question about it at all.

All it had taken to shatter that illusion had been the look on his dad’s face; the mixture of fear and dread, and resignation, like he’d been expecting it all along.

When his father called Scott that night, presumably because he didn’t trust Stiles to tell the truth, Stiles had learned the true meaning of _devastation_. He’d never felt it before, and he never wanted to feel it again, but he very much doubted that this heartbreak could ever go away, so it was a moot point.

Scott wouldn’t lie to his father. When his father started tiptoeing around him the same way Scott had, Stiles started packing his essentials, and withdrawing his meagre savings.

He’d never considered how fragile their relationship was. It should have been stronger. It should have stayed firm, and his dad should have _trusted_  that no matter how cold and rational Stiles was, he would never have killed someone in cold blood; that he was still the Stiles who couldn’t stand needles and picked up every stray cat on the way home. His Dad should have _known_ , and he missed his mother viscerally, like a limb, or a vital organ.

He hadn’t been able to handle the thought of staying another day in the house he grew up in. Once he decided to leave, it was easy. There were no ties left to cut.

And that’s how he ends up in front of the cabin in the mountains of North Colorado, days away from Beacon Hills. It’s beautiful; desolate, and cold - the way Stiles feels inside. It’s an old-fashioned log cabin – there’s nary a brick in sight. But it looks well-made, and well-preserved, and Stiles can just imagine a family making a home there, yellow lights shining through sparkling windows, and smoke curling through the chimney into the icy blue sky, and the sound of laughter and –

Stiles has no place in a family like that, anymore. It’s best that the windows stay covered, and the fireplace stay cold, because he’s in hiding, and it wouldn’t do to attract attention. The cabin is no less beautiful for it – it still looks like something out of a post-card, dark brown wood nestled in a fluffy blanket of snow. But he doesn’t intend to make a home here, he thinks. This is just a temporary sanctuary. He’ll move on, no matter how much he wants to stay.

Derek would be so upset if he realised that this was the one thing Stiles had learned from him, which he intended to keep.

His phone battery had died the night he left, and he hadn’t bothered charging it since then. There was no one he needed, or wanted, to keep in contact with. This far away from civilisation, the roads hadn’t changed in years – old maps still worked. If he needed emergency services, it wasn’t like he’d get signal anyway.

His jeep hadn’t survived even half the trip, which he’d expected, so he’d traded her in as an antique and got himself a second-hand four-wheeler with snow chains already installed. It had hurt, but it had also felt good. Without her, he was just another face in the crowed, driving yet another dirty four-wheeler. Anonymity was nice, after the way Scott and his dad had stared at him, and refused to look away.

Like they were afraid of him. Like they didn’t dare to turn their backs on him.

He’d slept in his four-wheeler with the heating on at night, because he hadn’t had cash to spare for motel rooms, and hadn’t dared to stay in hostels, because of all the horror stories he’d heard from Cora. He’d been fine in his four-wheeler, and he’d been fine without Wi-Fi because there was nothing to research, and he’d been fine without books because he’d just slept when he wasn’t driving, and he’d been fine eating shitty diner food once a day, and surviving on power bars and gas-station coffees the rest of the time. Anything was better than being in Beacon Hills.

Even at the pace he was going, it only took three days to get there, but it was the furthest he’d ever been from home, alone.

The cabin had once belonged to the Hale Family.

In another era, the entire family used to spend Christmas in the mountains. Werewolves were as good at skiing as they were everything else, and the kids had just loved the snow. Derek had told him so many fond stories before he left, when it felt like they were getting to be good friends, in spite of the constant and relentless chaos surrounding them.

Derek was what his mother would have called ‘a good sort’, once he’d had time to grieve. Stiles wished he’d treated him better when they’d first met, but Derek insisted on letting the past stay where it belonged. He’d said that he didn’t want all that shit to taint their lives now, and that good things were rare enough as it was. Stiles had gone pink at the thought that Derek considered their friendship a ‘good thing’.

Stiles had told Derek about his mother, about how she’d loved Christmas, and how they’d always made a big deal of it, even though they hadn’t had much family around. The Stilinskis, it seemed, had been fated to be a rare and lonely breed. He’d told Derek about volunteering in soup kitchens on Christmas morning, and picking out presents for kids who couldn’t afford them; about his father’s turkey, and his gramma’s stuffing; about how his mother hadn’t been allowed to touch a thing in the kitchen; about how he hadn’t tasted that stuffing since she’d died, because that part of his dad had died with her.

Derek had reciprocated by telling Stiles about how his mother had made his favourite pies when they were in the cabin, every Christmas. She never made them in Beacon Hills because she claimed that the recipes were in the cabin, and she didn’t remember how. After the fire, he and Laura had retreated to the cabin on their way to New York. He’d looked desperately for the recipes, for some hint or memory of his mothers’ handwriting, for _something_ that would make the place seem like home. But he’d never managed to find the recipes, confirming Laura’s suspicion that Talia had been making them from memory every time.

And now that memory was lost.

Derek had told him where the keys to the cabin were, before he’d left with Braeden. Stiles had known, even then, what that meant. He’d taken the trust, and he’d kept the secret. It was one secret he didn’t feel guilty for keeping. It was really nobody’s business, and he’d recognized that.

When he gets out of the truck, it’s a miracle he doesn’t slip. The ground is covered with a deceptively thin layer of snow, concealing a treacherous layer of ice underneath. Stiles manages to reach the door, and the key is tucked neatly beneath the lowest shingles of the porch roof. The front door clicks open easily, and getting in is a relief. He locks it behind himself, because it feels like he’s probably never going to leave. He feels like an animal getting into a cave to hibernate for the winter.

Stiles wishes he could go to sleep, and just not wake up.

It’s not much warmer inside, because clearly no one has been there for years, but it’s not as bad as he’d expected. Derek must have sealed the house tight the last time he visited, which means the air is musty, but not dusty, and it doesn’t smell like animal droppings, the way abandoned houses tend to.

 The generator comes on easily, which speaks of recent maintenance, and the pipes groan, but start warming up the space quickly. Stiles is just grateful that he’s not in Beacon Hills anymore. He doesn’t even have the energy to explore the rest of the house, which speaks of his mental state. He doesn’t know how to deal with the feeling that he’s invading something private; that he’s breaking and entering into someone’s sanctuary. But beggars can’t be choosers, so he quashes the guilt and carries on down the hall way.

The first room he comes to is a small library, because of course the Hales had a library in their winter cabin. He pulls the dust sheet off the sofa, and yeah, that looks perfect. He kicks off his boots, and shucks off his windcheater, but not the woolly jumper underneath, and rolls himself up in the thick afghan folded neatly over the back of the sofa. He doesn’t bother tucking his phone under his pillow, the way he had been for months now. There’s no one he cares to hear from.

He’s asleep the moment his head hits the cushion, and it’s a relief when he stops thinking.

~

When he wakes up, Derek is sitting on the chair in front of him.

Stiles can’t help it, but he flinches, because _fuck_. He should have remembered that Derek would be coming to spend Christmas in the cabin, too. He wouldn’t break that tradition, not even for his girlfriend, or all the bounty in the world. _Fuck_.

He moves to get up, and the first word on his lips is _sorry_ but Derek reaches for him before he can get it out, and he flinches again. Derek looks horrified, and his fingers curl into his palms, and Stiles can only imagine how he looks – exhausted and defeated, and bruises showing on his face like a scandalous tell-all of the past week. “Sorry,” he says again, because he didn’t mean to flinch. Not from Derek.

He doesn’t really think Derek will hurt him, but he’s miscalculated, and now he doesn’t know – he doesn’t have anyone –

“What happened?” Derek asks, his voice low and shocked. His knuckles are white, fists clenched to stop himself from reaching out. Stiles wishes he would, wishes he’s reach past the flinches and the bruises to just _touch_ , but…

“Scott thinks – my Dad too…” He trails off. Stiles can’t even get the sentence out. He doesn’t have the words, doesn’t have the thoughts, and hurt is brimming up inside him, ready to spill over. Whatever energy he gained from his nap is gone.

Derek looks shaken, like he can’t quite believe that Stiles is speechless. They both know what it takes to rob Stiles of his words. “Scott called me,” he says, instead, after a moment of silence. Stiles freezes, and Derek eyes him like he’s a wounded animal. “He said you’d gone missing. That they didn’t know where you were.”

Stiles knows it’s hopeless. Derek is a werewolf. Even if Stiles got past him, through the doorway, he’d still have to get out of the house and into his car, and knowing his luck he’d slip and break his neck on the driveway.

Which was a decent alternative, as far as choices went, because he was _not_ going back to Beacon Hills.

Derek must hear his heartrate pick up, must smell the stink of fear and exhaustion. Derek has always been good at picking up those things. “Jesus Stiles, what the hell—”

“I’m not going back,” he blurts out, and once the words are out, he can’t take them back. He doesn’t _want_ to take them back. Derek must hear the truth in those words too, because his eyes widen slightly – an obvious tell. “I’m not going back to Beacon Hills. I’m done,” he says, because he is. He’s capital-D-Done.

“Okay,” Derek says, and that’s –

It’s the last thing he’d been expecting Derek to say. The actual _last_ thing. “What.”

“Okay, Stiles. I’m not going to make you go back. I haven’t told them where you are or anything. I just told him I hadn’t heard from you, and that I was going to spend Christmas somewhere quiet, so not to expect any phone-calls.”

Stiles doesn’t have heightened senses, doesn’t have any evolutionary advantages or anything, but he’s pretty sure Derek is telling the truth. “I’m sorry,” he says again, because he is. He shouldn’t have broken into Derek’s family’s cabin. His escape plan should have been better planned out, for fucks sake.

“What for?” Derek asks, like he’s absolutely oblivious.

Stiles rolls his eyes, because Derek has never been polite or politically correct, and he wasn’t expecting him to start, now that Stiles looks like an abused child or whatever. “For breaking into your house, duh.”

Then _Derek_ rolls his eyes, which is unusual enough that Stiles’ mouth clicks shut. “Idiot. I wouldn’t have told you where it was if you weren’t welcome. I mean. I’m sorry you were forced to come here, but you’re an idiot. I wouldn’t have told you where the keys were if I didn’t want you to be able to get in.”

Stiles sighs and he can feel the tension seeping from his spine. Derek seems absolutely genuine, and completely non-threatening, and he _still_ doesn’t have the energy to really care about anything beyond his most immediate concerns. If Derek isn’t going to drag him back to Beacon Hills, things are as okay as they’re going to get.

“Have you eaten?” Derek asks, non-sequitur. It’s a dumb question because Stiles literally ran from Beacon Hills like the hounds of hell were chasing him. He hasn’t registered eating anything for days.

He shakes his head. “Not hungry.” Which, in all honesty, must have been a pretty worrying answer, because the last time Stiles had seen Derek, he’d been complaining about teenage boys and teenage werewolves eating him out of house and home.

“Too bad,” he replies. “I’ve already ordered pizza.”

Stiles raises a sceptical eyebrow. “In this weather?” he asks, because even through the still-covered window, he can see the unnaturally bright glare of sun-on-snow.

Derek sighs, and it’s really funny how they’re already mirroring each others’ body language. They’ve been around each other for a grand total of fifteen minutes, maybe, and they’re already on the same wavelength. More so than he and Scott have been for months, now. “You’re in a mountain in North Colorado. They’re used to this weather.”

Stiles shrugs, but leans back into the sofa when it looks like Derek isn’t going anywhere. “So how have you been? Is Braeden around?”

Derek shakes his head, shucking his jacket to reveal a forest green jumper underneath. He looks super cuddly, and his harsh edges have softened, like he’s a little happier. A little bit less on-the-edge-of-survival. It’s a good look for him. “Nah. We broke up a while ago. She was hired in Norway and I wasn’t particularly keen on following her out there.”

“Sorry, dude,” Stiles says, because he is. Despite his huge, un-subtle crush on Derek, Braeden had seemed good for Derek, and Stiles had cared enough for Derek to want the best for him. He liked that Derek had put on some weight. Liked that he’d lost the wild look about his eyes. He looked solid, and stable, like a healthy twenty-four year old man should.

Derek shakes his head again. “No, don’t be. We weren’t forever, and I knew that. I liked her but it was always going to be casual.”

Stiles understands. He’d been the same with Malia.

There is another moment of silence, and Stiles can hear Derek’s phone buzzing in the distance. Scott, maybe. Maybe someone else. Someone whom Derek had met while he’d been away. Maybe Derek has other friends now.

Maybe Stiles could also make other friends, now that he’s out of Beacon Hills.

“Listen,” Derek starts, interrupting Stiles’ introspection. “I know we have a lot to talk about, and you probably have a long story to tell me, so I’m going to make some hot chocolate, but is it okay if I hug you?” And that—

That was unexpected.

Just.

Stiles is exhausted. He’d been beaten and bruised and abandoned, and the three days he’d spent driving up there had been the most miserable three days in recent memory. He’d never before felt so alone, or so hopeless.

Things had been bad for a long time, but he’d always had some sort of support, until it was gone, and then he’d felt like he was floating through space, like he was freefalling, because someone had cut the bungee cable. It had been absolute nauseating, and he’d hated it, but he hadn’t known what to do about it.

And now, Derek is – Derek is standing in front of him, eyes cautious and sincere, and so gentle, and Stiles cannot make himself reject the offer – he cannot bring himself to –

He nods, cautiously.

Derek steps around the coffee-table in between them, and kneels down on the floor beside the couch, and puts his arms around Stiles. It should be the most awkward hug in the history of all hugs, because Stiles isn’t sure whether he should sit up or lie down or what, but he puts his arms around Derek in turn and it’s –

It’s breath-taking.

Derek feels as soft as he looks, and he’s warm, and strong, and he smells like laundry detergent, and pine-tree car freshener and Stiles feels the lump in his throat rising, and his fingers tightening in Derek’s super touchable jumper and he’s been holding on for so long that he can’t hold on anymore.

Derek doesn’t let go when the first tears brim out of Stiles’ eyes. He doesn’t let go when tears turn into a torrent, when Stiles’ cheeks are wet and he’s crying so hard he can’t breathe. He just pushes himself onto the couch to wrap himself around Stiles, and it should have been so fucking awkward because they’re friends but not like – not this – but it’s not. It’s not awkward at all.

It’s a tight fit on the sofa, and the afghan is tangled somewhere around Stiles’ legs from when he’d been thinking about making a break for it. But Derek is warm, and he’s got one hand pressed against his back and another one in his hair, holding him close. Stiles just goes with it; lets Derek tuck pull his face into the crook of his own neck, where he smells the strongest like day-old-aftershave and yet more car freshener.

Derek doesn’t let go, even when Stiles is done crying, when his sobs have quietened, and he’s stopped shaking and shivering. His hands are gentle and sure, and Stiles hasn’t felt so safe in a very, _very_ long time.

Stiles has questions to ask, and a fucking long story to tell, that’s for sure. There are plans to be made, both for the short term and the long term. There are problems to be solved, because he has no money, but he wants to go to college. He’s eighteen, but his dad is a cop, so running away permanently is going to be a hundred times more difficult. He doesn’t know how to open a bank account, doesn’t know how to rent a flat, doesn’t know how to work full time or pay taxes, and he doesn’t know how to be an adult on his own, even though he pretty much raised himself after his mother died. He’d never been completely alone. He’d just copied his dad, and that had been enough – a perpetual game of What Would Sheriff Stilinski Do?

But Derek appeared out of the blue, just like he had all those years ago in the woods, when he’d felt the need to help a stupid, newly-bitten werewolf and his idiot best friend, even though his sister had just been murdered.

Derek had left Beacon Hills because it had been what he’d needed, but Stiles shudders at the thought of Derek leaving _him_. Derek hushes him and just hugs tighter, and doesn’t let him go until Stiles has stopped twitching, and the pizza delivery has rung the doorbell twice.

“I’m going to get that,” Derek narrates, into Stiles’ ear, as if he’s wary of breaking the hush that has descended over them. “And then I’m going to come back, and we’re going to eat, and we’ll figure out what to do next, okay?”

Stiles nods, silent because he has no words. “Okay,” Derek says again, before getting up and pulling out his wallet. “You’re not alone in this. Trust me, Stiles.”

Even though Stiles can only find his voice after Derek has left the room, he says it, because it’s important that Derek hears it. “I always have, Der.”

And then, to the soft murmuring of voices coming from the doorway, he closes his eyes to wait, because he knows, for the first time in a long time, that Derek has his back, and that he’ll be there where Stiles opens his eyes again.

**Author's Note:**

> The cabin in the mountains is inspired by a cabin my family really stayed in, in Ouray, Colorado. It’s a beautiful little town with a tiny population and breathtaking views, especially when everything is covered in several feet of snow. I can imagine the Hales being perfectly at home there.
> 
> Happy Christmas, everyone, I hope you guys have a fantastic New Year!


End file.
